


Last Dance

by Kari_Kurofai



Category: My Engineer (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Marking, Minor Injuries, Rough Sex, Submissive Character, Subspace, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24482257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kari_Kurofai/pseuds/Kari_Kurofai
Summary: “You should have hit him,” Duen says darkly, even though the words twist so harshly in his chest that he chokes on them. His eyes are stinging, and he shakes his head fiercely as Bohn shies away from another touch, ducks back to let a new drip of blood slide down his lip and fall to where his shirt is already speckled with it.God damn it. God damn it.Bohn still isn’t quite looking at him. Every line of him is tense, withheld, and Duen watches with abject terror as he steps back just far enough to make sure they’re not touching anymore. “He’s your dad,” he says lowly, like that matters. The image of him taking that first punch flashes through Duen’s mind again, and he has to wrap an arm around himself to keep from closing that distance between them even as the chasm yawns wider. Bohn shifts back like he’s expecting him to though, takes a few too-big steps away until he’s practically in the living room, his gaze fixed on the sun starting to set outside the windows. “Thank you for taking me home.”
Relationships: Bohn/Duen (My Engineer)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 248





	Last Dance

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING
> 
> This fic contains implications of aggressive homophobia. Only the aftermath of the actual act is pictured, but it's still there. Please proceed with caution if that triggers you. 
> 
> Anyways we got our good end and that now means I can go buck wild and post all my angsty what-ifs as well as upcoming funtimes AUs. Prepare your butts lol. I plan to keep this up till season two.

Duen barely musters up the energy to flick the lights on when they get back to the apartment, and as soon as he does he wishes he didn’t. Bohn is standing a few paces away, and he winces when the bulb flickers to life overhead and highlights every horrible detail of the last hour. There’s a deep bruise forming around his right eye and spreading down his cheekbone, and his lower lip is split so hard there’s still a trickle of blood rolling down his chin. Duen makes a noise he didn’t even know he could make as he sees it, and steps forward to roll the end of his uniform sleeve up over his palm. He swipes it over the drip of crimson, murmuring out some nonsensical soothing sound as Bohn flinches away until he gets his other hand on the back of his neck, holds him there. 

It’s the fact that he won’t meet Duen’s eyes that hurts the most, the way he keeps shifting his gaze away and tensing up every time Duen presses careful fingers to his face. With startling, horrible clarity, he remembers that Bohn hadn’t fought back, and his heart clenches sickly in his chest. He wonders, far too late, if Bohn hadn’t moved out of some sort of misguided sense that he deserved it. “You should have hit him,” Duen says darkly, even though the words twist so harshly in his chest that he chokes on them. His eyes are stinging, and he shakes his head fiercely as Bohn shies away from another touch, ducks back to let a new drip of blood slide down his lip and fall to where his shirt is already speckled with it. 

God damn it. _God damn it_.

Bohn still isn’t quite looking at him. Every line of him is tense, withheld, and Duen watches with abject terror as he steps back just far enough to make sure they’re not touching anymore. “He’s your dad,” he says lowly, like that matters. The image of him taking that first punch flashes through Duen’s mind again, and he has to wrap an arm around himself to keep from closing that distance between them even as the chasm yawns wider. Bohn shifts back like he’s expecting him to though, takes a few too-big steps away until he’s practically in the living room, his gaze fixed on the sun starting to set outside the windows. “Thank you for taking me home.”

The way he says it, so simultaneously hollow and thick that Duen can hear the way the words catch in his throat, makes white hot rage curl tight claws into the spaces between his ribs. This was supposed to be a _good_ day. They’d spent the morning picking out Bohn’s outfit, unbuttoning and rebuttoning his shirt between teasing kisses and little goading remarks. “ _Gotta look your best,_ ” Duen had murmured against his skin, “ _I want my dad to be impressed when I tell him I’m moving out_.” He feels nauseous remembering it now. He can still see the mark he’d left on Bohn’s collarbone after he’d said those words. It’s peeking out behind the collar of his shirt, beneath fabric stained with dots of blood, and for some reason that’s the tipping point. 

Duen presses the heels of his hands to his mouth, chokes on something that’s dangerously close to an actual retch, and falls back until he hits the door. This is his fault. It’s _his_ fault. All the times his father had mentioned that he needed to get a girlfriend, needed to be manlier . . . Only an _idiot_ wouldn’t read between the lines. Stupid. God, he’d been so fucking _stupid_.

This was supposed to be a good day.

His breath stutters through him, and Duen heaves in another one that’s practically a sob. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see Bohn turning away from him anymore. The ruby red of the blood is seared into the inside of his eyelids though, and that’s almost worse. “God, Bohn, _I’m so sorry_.”

There are hands in his hair, fingers pulling his palms away from his face until he has to look up. Bohn still isn’t meeting his eyes. Even as he rubs his thumbs in quiet, consoling circles over Duen’s cheeks, chases tear tracks down to his jaw, he isn’t quite looking at him. The skin around his right eye, mottled purple, is starting to swell up, and Duen barely has the presence of mind to think about how they need to get ice for that. Every breath feels like fire in his lungs, and he chokes on the strangled sounds of more apologies that he fears will never be enough. Yet Bohn is still . . . Bohn is trying to comfort him even though he’s the one that . . .

Duen gets his hands around Bohn’s wrists, makes sure to keep his grip light, so light, even as he tugs at him. He doesn’t know where the line is going to be drawn, what action will break everything in this porcelain atmosphere, and god forbid it’s something he does. He’s already done enough. Still, he pulls, does so until Bohn staggers into him, until he can press his face into the crook of Bohn’s neck and let go in favor of settling his hands on his hips instead. Bohn’s fingers are in his hair again, but the touch is too tentative, feathered and uneasy, and Duen can’t stand it. “Please don’t hate me,” he begs before he can stop himself, “Bohn, please don’t-”

“Do you need help packing?”

Duen freezes, straightens up to get a hand under Bohn’s chin and force him to meet his gaze. “What? No, I-” Why would he ask that? Shouldn’t it be obvious that Duen is never, _ever_ making him go back there? If anyone is going to help him get his stuff from his parents' house it’s going to be Ram. Not Bohn. Never. Not ever again. “No,” he repeats, harder, surer. “No. I won’t make you do that.”

Bohn gives him a wavering, shallow smile that falls disastrously short of meeting his eyes. “Yeah, I’m not sure whose shirts are whose anymore so . . . it’s probably just better if- if you-” He’s struggling on every word after just a few breaths, and Duen’s mind reels as he tries to figure out why. 

“Let me get the first aid kit,” he pleads. There’s blood drying on Bohn’s chin, and he worries if they don’t ice his eye it’s going to be swollen shut tomorrow. But Bohn just shakes his head, sucks in another uneven inhale as he skims his hands down Duen’s chest. Every movement is slow, hesitant, restrained, and Duen’s heart aches so much he wonders if he could actually die from it. “Bohn . . .”

“Can I?” Bohn whispers, and he’s trembling as he gets his fingers around the hem of Duen’s shirt, starts pushing open buttons. “I won’t- after this I won’t . . .” The next breath he heaves in is too much, too broken and too wet, and Duen surges against him before he can stop himself.

Bohn’s lips taste of copper and salt and he _hates it_. 

"I just-” Bohn gasps out between kisses, stumbling back as Duen herds him towards the bedroom. “I need-” He can’t seem to form a complete thought, every one falling into pieces before he can say it. But Bohn has always been better at speaking through touch, communicating with his body rather than his words, and after a promised and then well earned year Duen likes to think he’s adept enough at reading that language to figure it out. Reassurance, he thinks dizzily, frantically. Comfort. Security. He can give these things. He will.

“Yes, of course,” he murmurs against the corner of Bohn’s mouth. “ _Of course_.” 

They make it to the bed somehow, kicking away pants and shrugging out of shirts until Bohn shoves him down onto the mattress. There’s fresh desperation in every kiss, and Duen’s skin sears as Bohn’s touches quickly turn from hesitant to urgently heated. He’s still shaking, still drawing in thin, rattling breaths like he’s on the edge of fraying apart, and Duen doesn’t know what to do to dispel those lingering tremors other than this. Bohn flinches the first time he goes to touch his face, but leans into it the second time, lets Duen cradle the line of his jaw and drag him down for a kiss that still tastes too much of blood. “Let me-” he says again against Duen’s mouth, his hand fumbling above them on the shelf until Duen hears the telltale pop of a cap being thumbed open. “After this, I won’t . . .”

He’s still not making any sense, Duen notes distantly, too busy chasing every shiver over Bohn’s skin with careful hands to dwell on it much. He skims down over Bohn’s ribs, his stomach, his hips, presses his fingers into the underside of his thighs as Bohn straddles him and shifts on his knees to get a hand behind himself. “Slow down,” Duen hears himself say as Bohn hisses and falls forwards to brace a hand on the mattress next to his head. “Slow down.” He trails his touch up, lets his hand ease over next to Bohn’s and feel that he’s already two fingers deep, but too tight and too tense. 

Bohn stares down at him, eyes wide and wild, and Duen starts as his hand is knocked away. “Don’t,” Bohn snaps, and something harsh winds its way around Duen’s heart. “I don’t want you to- just let me do this. I won’t ask for anything else. Just let me-” he stops again, shakes his head and chokes on a noise that Duen hopes he’ll be able to forget eventually, weeks and months from now when the day behind them is nothing but a bad memory. 

The fact that Bohn doesn’t want him to touch him there though leaves him cold, rakes icey thorns through his lungs, and it takes everything he has to bring himself to settle his hands on his legs again. He watches Bohn work himself open with a lump in his throat, traces soft shapes on the underside of his thighs whenever he sucks in a too-jagged inhale. They should stop, he thinks, but he knows they won’t. He can see how desperate Bohn is, how much he needs this with every hitched sound he makes, every ripple of his muscles under his skin. Bohn’s every atom is strung together with a lifetime of touch starved want, and Duen has been entranced by the desideratum with which he aches to provide him with everything he desires ever since they met. 

He stays quiet when Bohn lines them up, steadies himself on an inhale and glides his hands over his hips just to provide that stability. “C-careful,” he gasps when Bohn starts to drop down, and he digs his fingers into his skin in a warning that’s swiftly ignored as Bohn bottoms out so fast it leaves them both breathless. “ _Bohn_.” Fuck, _fuck_ , it’s too much. He’s going to end up hurting himself, might have already, and Duen releases him in favor of pushing up onto his elbows. That’s enough. It’s too much, and Bohn is shaking above him like a leaf. 

But Bohn gets his hands on his shoulders before Duen can pull out, his grip firm despite how hard he’s trembling. “Don’t,” he whimpers. “Please. Just one last time, and then I’ll-”

It sinks in suddenly what this is, what Bohn _thinks_ this is, and Duen fights against the hold on him until he’s able to roll them over, has Bohn pinned down beneath him on the mattress as he pulls out. “Bohn,” he says, and his voice is so hoarse, so horrified, that Bohn stills immediately, choking on a high and empty noise of protest. Fuck, Duen thinks, where had he gone wrong? How had he let him even think- “Bohn, I’m not leaving you.”

He’d asked if he needed help packing, and Duen had thought he’d meant at his house when he’d really been implying . . .

“God damnit,” Duen chokes, “ _Bohn_. I love you, okay? _I love you_! Of course I’m not going to-” He punctuates his half formed words with a kiss to Bohn’s lips, another to his cheek, the corners of each eye, hesitant, soft where it hurts. “If anyone should be leaving it’s _you_ ,” he whispers against the shell of his ear. “I never should have brought you there.”

Duen has never been ashamed of their relationship despite early hesitation at declaring it. His worries had lain within it lasting rather than the nature of it, and he’s sick with the knowledge that he might never be able to make that clear enough. “I don’t care what anyone thinks,” he reiterates. “ _Anyone_. I _love_ you. Alright?”

“I’m sorry,” Bohn whispers, and it’s so far from the response Duen wants that he nearly cries. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he returns instantly, fiercely, and shakes his head as tears well in his eyes anyways. His hands frame Bohn’s face, his thumb running carefully along the bruise on the right side. “ _I’m_ sorry,” he murmurs. 

“It’s not your fault,” Bohn says, and each breath he inhales sounds steadier, surer, even as Duen’s starts to break down. “ _Baby_ ,” he says, and Duen finally sobs as he realizes he hadn’t called him that earlier, even though they’d- even though they’d been . . . “ _Baby_ ,” Bohn repeats, reaching up to wind his arms around his shoulders, pull him close until they’re moulded together and he can bury his head into Duen’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

They lay like that for awhile, Bohn drawing his fingers over his spine in languid lines until Duen’s shuddering breaths even out. He counts heartbeats when he gets his arms under Bohn’s back, presses them as close together as he can get before he mouths a new, prettier mark into the curve of Bohn’s neck. It’s followed by a second, a third, until he’s sure he’s left more imprints of himself on Bohn’s skin than there are bruises on his face. Bohn’s gone all loose and soft in his arms, is murmuring low praises and delicate solaces into his hair, his earlier fears easing out of him in waves. “I’m not going anywhere,” he hums when Duen kisses back up his jaw, his cheek. Salt stings on his tongue, but he can’t tell whose tears are whose anymore. “I’m yours as long as you’ll have me,” Bohn promises, as if that might ever change, and Duen chokes on an injured sound as he realizes Bohn had actually thought that it did.

“Love you,” he swears, kissing the words into Bohn’s lungs until he gasps with them, whines into the next kiss with relief. There’s so much more he wants to say, so many more oaths he wants to make until Bohn never thinks like that again. But he knows all too well that there’s only so much words can do for his boyfriend, only so much reassurance he can take on spoken vows. Still, he doesn’t want it to feel like some sort of sick finality, doesn’t want to follow that terrible moment where it almost had been with something like this without making absolutely certain Bohn understands his commitment. He’ll say it in any way he likes, every way he wants, until he never thinks those horrible thoughts ever again. “ _Love you,_ ” he repeats, lets the heat pool into each syllable and into himself. 

“ _Baby,_ ” Bohn breathes between them, and it’s not even an endearment so much as it is its own declaration. He’s so pliant when Duen gets his hands under his thighs, so open and willing, his eyes hooded as he watches Duen settle his hips into his lap and reach for the lube that had been tossed off to the wayside. “You gonna take care of me?” he asks, and it comes out just a little hitched, the tiniest bit still uncertain, and Duen’s heart breaks.

“Yeah,” Duen says, “of course I am. Is that okay?” He needs to make sure, needs to know Bohn still wants this, wants him this way. The memory of Bohn pushing his hand away is still viscerally real, less than a half hour behind them. He needs to be sure. Kisses are pressed to the inside of Bohn’s thigh as he waits for an answer, ignores the jerky nod of Bohn’s head until he gets his desired verbal confirmation. “Phi,” he urges, smiling against Bohn’s skin when he hears him suck in a startled inhale. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” Bohn says instantly, and that really is all the answer Duen needs. He releases his grip on Bohn’s thigh to spill lube over his fingers, watches with careful, cautious reverence as Bohn’s chest heaves as he presses inside. “ _Fuck_.”

Duen smooths his free hand over his stomach, drinks in the way he rolls up into the touch, how his thighs squeeze around his waist. “Did you hurt yourself earlier?” he asks, and Bohn shakes his head. It had definitely been too fast though, too much too soon, and Duen can feel that around his fingers, against the knuckles on the rest of his hand. He’s going to be sore and swollen later, and regret courses thickly in Duen’s veins. Bohn’s entire body ripples up against him though when he beckons inside him, a noise of unquestionable ecstasy falling from his lips, and that’s more than enough for Duen to keep going. “Make sure to tell me if it hurts,” he says, and when Bohn doesn’t immediately respond he mulls the words over, rephrases them into something more direct. “You _have to_ tell me if it hurts,” he tries instead.

Bohn cracks open an eye, stares at him for a heartbeat and licks his lips as he forms his answer. “Okay.”

Ah, Duen thinks, trying desperately to ignore the tight coil of arousal that curls low in his abdomen at the breathy sound of that affirmation, he’s got _that_ Bohn today. He’d wondered if he might, after everything. He should have noticed it earlier, should have been more assertive in the face of his obvious distress. What matters though is that he can do it this time, can give Bohn what he needs _now_. Time is a straight line, and it’s useless to spend too long agonizing over things he can’t change. He pulls out, drips more lube onto his hand to the tune of Bohn’s mumbled protests, and works his fingers back in slower. “Tell me if you get too close,” he says, low enough that he’s sure it won’t come across as anything other than an order. 

“Okay.”

More than anything, Duen truly likes taking his time. Bohn is ever fluctuating with what he wants, always a whirlwind, but Duen prefers it like this. He relishes in making Bohn fall apart in long, drawn out minutes, desires more than anything to chase him close to the edge and back again, leave him gasping until he’s trembling in all the best ways. And he likes, too, that this is exactly what Bohn needs from him when the world is too much, that what he’s asked for and what he can give align just right when it’s so necessary it almost hurts. He rolls the pads of his index and middle fingers over the spot that makes Bohn’s back arch, circles them until he’s practically writhing on his hand. It’s not quite enough pressure to tip him over the precipice, and he reads that in the way Bohn’s breaths stutter in his chest, how his heels dig into Duen’s back hard enough to bruise. He holds him on that line for awhile, watches Bohn’s fingers clench in the sheets until his knuckles are white, his skin painfully flushed. “Duen,” he chokes eventually, hands scrabbling at Duen’s chest in warning. “I- _fu-ah-fuck_! I’m gonna come.”

Duen withdraws immediately, holds still as Bohn whines and tries to chase after him with a desperate roll of his body. He raises a hand, lets Bohn see him do it before he lays it over the jut of his hip and pins him down. Bohn inhales sharply, his nails digging into Duen’s collarbones, but he stills. “Not yet,” Duen murmurs. He rewards the renewed pliancy with a kiss, tastes the way Bohn practically purrs against his lips when he trails his touch lower, hikes his legs up around his waist. “Be good,” he says, and Bohn shivers beneath him. 

This time when he sinks inside he takes Bohn in increments, careful centimeters and breaths so he can appreciate every second of it. “Don’t come yet,” he reminds when he bottoms out. Bohn’s cock twitches dangerously between them, still untouched. There’s precum dripping down over his stomach, thickly pooling across his skin, and Duen takes a moment to swipe a thumb through it, lift it to Bohn’s already parting lips. A tongue darts out, traces the length of the digit and then pulls it inwards and bites down. Duen lets him do it, observes how he goes about it in near silence, the air only broken by the tiniest, neediest little whine when he finally pulls his hand free. He shifts to cradle Bohn’s jaw, leans down and gifts him a lingering kiss. The motion, the position, involuntarily draws him in a little deeper, and Bohn whimpers into the second kiss. 

“ _Hah_!” His hands come up, cling to Duen’s upper arms as he leans back again to give Bohn room to arch beneath him. This time, Duen doesn’t need verbal confirmation to know he’s close to climaxing. “Don’t move,” Bohn chokes, “I’ll- Baby, _fuck_ , I’m so-”

He’s so good like this, Duen acknowledges with that same, dizzy affection he always does in the heat of the moment. This is all his, all for him, and Bohn gives it to him _willingly_. “Amazing,” he praises, and Bohn’s breath hitches visibly in his chest. “You’re doing so good.” The decision to fit his fingers over the blooming bruise on Bohn’s cheek is conscious, and he does it slowly, carefully, until he’s sure Bohn knows exactly what he means. He wants to get rid of the memory behind it, banish it for something better. “So good for me,” he assures, ever reverent. They have safewords, he reminds himself as he presses a thumb into the bruise, watches Bohn wince but still lean into the touch. A simple utterance of “ _red_ ” and he’ll stop. “Let me take care of you.”

This time it’s not really an order. He’s leaving room for Bohn to say no, and he waits, lessens his touch to something more feather-light, as Bohn considers him though half lidded eyes. “Please,” he says after a heartbeat, soft and trusting, and Duen loves him so fiercely and desperately in that moment he fears it might consume him.

He presses his thumb into the bruise, keeps doing it until it forces a pained whimper out of Bohn’s throat, and then he rolls his hips forwards, turns that sound into something better, higher. 

“ _A-ah!_ ” 

His thumb digs into the purpled skin again the next time he cants in, and Duen leans over to catch Bohn’s mouth against his, taste the still lingering copper tinge and bite down on that split lower lip before he says, “You can come.”

The strangled noise of relief Bohn makes leaves him breathless, too. His legs constrict around Duen’s waist, his back bowing and his hands scrabbling for purchase at Duen’s shoulders. His entire body goes taut as he spills so harshly it hits high on his chest. Duen gets a hand between them, strokes him through it so he can feel the pulse against his palm, can hear Bohn’s gasps climb into oversensitive moans as he kisses that mottled patch of skin around his eye. He’s shaking again, trembling with a little more than just aftershocks, and Duen noses at the shell of his ear, holds himself still as he waits to see what sort of Bohn he’ll have in his arms as he comes down from his high. 

He’s quiet, all touch and little else. He runs his hands over Duen’s shoulders, down his back, nuzzling into his neck with soft, hot breaths against his skin. Duen lets him do it, keenly aware that Bohn is trying to map him, memorize his every touch and feel and taste, and leans into it when teeth dig into his collarbone. There’s still a gentle pliancy to it though, just sparked through with satiation, lulled with the tentative first lightings of security. “Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks, aware of how direct he needs to continue to be with every word even though it’s not an order. 

“Yeah,” Bohn whispers into his neck. The reply comes out more evenly than it might have just minutes ago, and Duen murmurs a low admiration against his shoulder that makes Bohn shiver. “You should flip me over though. My, uh, my legs . . .”

Duen moves a hand under one of his thighs, feels it quiver with strain and stress beneath his fingers, and nods. “Alright. Tell me if you need me to stop though,” he says, and this time it’s definitely a command. 

“Okay.”

He does as asked, presses sympathetic kisses over Bohn’s spine when he whines as he pulls out. There’s a spot on Bohn’s shoulder blade that’s a bit too pink, he notes with a simmer of anger, and he brushes aside the memory of him falling onto his side after being hit in favor of sucking a darker mark into that place instead. When he presses inside again Bohn keens and curses, clenching around him almost immediately. 

“Slow,” Bohn pleads. “Slowly, baby, slowly,” he gasps as he drags a pillow down the bed and rests his chin on it. 

_There we go_ , Duen thinks, equally pleased and relieved. Mentally he hands over half the reins. “Can you tell me what you want?” he asks, threading the fingers of one hand through Bohn’s where they’re fisting in the sheets. 

Bohn nods into the pillow. “Y-yeah. Give me a second?” Duen watches him suck in a few large, steady inhales, shudder around the exhales. He settles a hand on his hip, helps Bohn get his knees up under him when he moves to do so, and waits. “ _Fuck,_ ” Bohn chokes out after a minute. “Okay. I’m okay. Can you . . .” He shifts even more, spreads his legs a little wider, and Duen groans as it makes him sink in just a fraction deeper. " _Yeah_ ,” Bohn gasps. “That’s good. _God_.”

He’s being mouthy again, Duen revels, his vision blurring as he presses grateful kisses down Bohn’s spine. “Hey,” he smiles, the single syllable almost a greeting, and he squeezes Bohn’s hand in his. 

“Hey,” Bohn murmurs back without hesitation. It remains a note or two too soft, but he’s getting there. Duen can feel it, can taste his own assurances on Bohn’s skin as they sink back into his very bones. They’re okay. “You should fuck me,” Bohn says, the words humming through him. “Like, really hard, actually,” he adds, and Duen’s nerves instantly feel like they’re on fire, and Bohn gasps as his cock twitches inside him. “ _Ah_ \- baby. Come on. I want to feel it in the morning.” He gets an arm under him, lays it across the pillow beneath his head and props his chin over the curve of it so he can give Duen what he probably thinks is a sultry look out of the corners of his eyes. It’s not quite there though, remains a bit too watery with that deep, more than carnal need. “I know you want that too,” he mumbles into his arm, and Duen really, really does.

Still. “You have to let me know if it’s too much,” he says, watching Bohn’s eyes glaze slightly, flicker with the last vestiges of his total submissiveness. 

“I will.”

He’s clearly still oversensitive when Duen starts moving, and it takes awhile for his barely muffled whimpers to turn into something more. Duen gives it to him exactly how he wants, grips his hips hard enough to bruise and bites his way down the bow of his spine until Bohn shudders on a moan that’s close to a sob. His legs are shaking again, and Duen murmurs a clipped, “S’okay,” as he gets an arm under him, holds him up when he threatens to collapse. “Do you need me to touch you?” he asks when he feels Bohn start to tense up, hears his choked mewls pitch to that perfect, telling note. 

“N- _ah_ ! No. Just li- _fuck_ , just like this, baby. So good. Just like-”

As usual, Bohn’s orgasm seems to take even him by surprise, leaves him gasping and clenching down in waves of shuddering relief. Duen holds him through it, stutters into him just twice more before he hisses, “ _Fuck, Bohn,_ ” and tips over the edge himself. 

He lets them down slowly, listens with rapt attention as Bohn mumbles out a litany of swears and praises while he settles him down on his stomach and pulls out. “ _God_ ,” Bohn heaves on an exhale when he does so, sounding so thoroughly wrecked that Duen has to take a moment to just breathe lest he let that noise go straight southward with renewed vigor. 

"You alright?” He manages to make himself ask after a minute, already kneading his hands down Bohn’s spine, teasing out every tight knot in his back one by one. 

“Fantastic,” Bohn murmurs into the pillow. “Thank you.”

There’s still a bruise around his eye, another forming on his shoulder blade, and when he lifts his head to cast Duen a sleepy little smirk there’s a smear of blood on the pillow beneath him. “Let me clean you up,” Duen says, swiping a thumb over the trickle of red that’s working its way down his boyfriend’s chin again. “Then I’ll call Ram.”

Bohn makes a face at him, “Please don’t talk about Ram, or any of our friends for that matter, while I still have your cum in me. I’ll die.” He rolls over onto his side though, lets Duen bundle him into his arms and press a kiss to his bruised cheek. “Don’t go back tonight, okay?” he asks quietly, and Duen shakes his head against his shoulder, the tightness in his throat too much to answer around. “Stay with me. We’ll figure out what to do in the morning.”

Duen holds him tighter, squeezes him against his body until Bohn chokes on a sound that’s half a laugh, half a sob. “I’ll stay,” he promises, and he means it for more than just the night. And by the way Bohn sags against him, how he finally brings his arms up to wrap around his back, he knows that.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't trust Duen's dad any further than I can fucking throw him. I'll be honestly shocked if he's not a season 2 problem.
> 
> Anyways I wanted to deal with it before the show did, and I'm sorry but not sorry I gave it an angstier spin than I'm sure this fluff show ever will. I'll give you a cute new first time fic to make up for it soon. 
> 
> As always keep your hate for my boys out of the comments or I'll screenshot your idiocy and throw it into the group chat to be mocked relentlessly. 
> 
> Good comments needed for strength and energy tho. Guess who goes back to work in this pandemic racist hell tomorrow? Me! Please feed me comments lmao. 
> 
> Much love


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